


Literal Cold, Figurative Heat

by inthisdive



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 21:49:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inthisdive/pseuds/inthisdive
Summary: Twenty-six hours, forty-nine minutes, and counting: how long it’s been since Ryan decided he wasn’t speaking to Brendon. This was written in 2008 and published on LiveJournal.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redbrickrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrickrose/gifts).



“Get me a knife,” Spencer muttered from the tour bus, stretched out in his bunk. Brendon and Ryan were both headphoned, listening to music, so it was only Jon who caught the remark. 

Probably best that way. 

“What do you want a knife for?” Jon asked, glancing over at Spencer, gently setting down his guitar. 

“So I can cut a switch of this tension in the air and beat Mopey and Dopey over there in the head with it.”

Jon chuckled, appreciative, and lay back down. “Good luck.”

Spencer nodded. It wasn't luck they needed, he knew that. What they needed was weaponry.

* 

Twenty-six hours, forty-nine minutes, and counting. That was exactly how long it had been since Ryan had said a single word to Brendon, not that Brendon had even noticed. Brendon's permanent state of social oblivion couldn't have picked a better time to piss Ryan off, either – he was just more and more convinced that he was never going to speak to Brendon ever again, thank you very much. 

It wouldn't be that difficult, Ryan thought. Silence until they reached the stage and then... Well. That had started the whole trouble in the first place. Ryan sighed, dropping his head face-first into his pillow. 

Brendon looked up from his bunk at the movement, pulled his earphones out of his ears. “What's wrong?” 

Ryan said nothing. 

“Ryan? Ry? Hello, earth to Ryan. Ground to control to Major Ryan, come in – hey, remember that song? _Ground control to Major To_ -”

“He's not talking to you,” Spencer pointed out in his world-weary way, which Ryan usually liked, but just managed to annoy him when he was in this mood. Spencer was nineteen, for god's sake, not some kind of Confucius. 

Brendon, however, wasn't fazed by Spencer. He turned to look at him, genuinely surprised. “Since when?” 

“For _fuck's_ sake.”

“Seriously Spence! Since when?”

Spencer just stared. 

“Since when?”

“... You really didn't notice? Jesus, Brendon. You really have no idea what happens in the world, do you?”

“No! Yes. Ryan?” He turned to look at Ryan pleadingly; Ryan was still face-planted in his bunk. 

“Ryan?” 

Ryan knew not to look up at Brendon. He knew very well not to look up at him, because he knew exactly what he’d see: puppy-dog eyes and possibly, trembling lips. Trembling lips attached to a mouth that was a little too full and too lush for Ryan’s personal comfort. Better not to look at them so he could stay mad. Better to pretend the music coming through his headphones was loud enough to drown him out. 

Not that he liked being mad. But it was preferable to – that other thing.

“Seriously. Ryan.”

Ryan said nothing. Spencer looked over at Jon. Jon raised a brow, reached over, tapped Spencer on the forearm. “Our cue.” 

Spencer nodded, stretching. “Let’s go.” 

And the two made their graceful if not entirely unnoticed exit; companionable arms slung over each other’s shoulders, shaking their heads in perfect unison.

*

It took another three minutes and approximately fifteen seconds of a continuous loop of “Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan. Ryan” for Ryan's will to break. Personally, Ryan was impressed he'd managed to hold out that long. 

He looked up, slipped off his headphones, lifted his head off his pillow. With his best flat and emotionless voice, all he offered was: “What.” 

Something happened then, Ryan noticed, the moment he locked eyes with Brendon. It was like a sea-change; Brendon sat up straighter, grew serious. There was something in his eyes, and it made Ryan frown, thoughtful. 

Brendon was really worried about this. 

“Did I do something wrong?” he asked in that _voice_ , that voice that sounded like a little boy got lost and left alone in an adult body, that perfectly bewildered and hitched-breath tone that absolutely, unfailingly, _broke_ Ryan every time. 

So instead of saying: yes, you did something wrong and I'm pissed, or yes, you're playing with me and I'm sick of it, or yes, you looked at me like that and now I don't even want to call Keltie anymore, Ryan just shook his head and sat up, opening his arms. Sighing, he settled on saying one word: “C'mere.” 

And Brendon came over, all limbs and fluidity, and settled into Ryan's arms, half on his lap. Ryan looked down at him and god, Brendon was biting down on his lower lip, that splash of dark colour against the paleness of his face, the lightest dusting of stubble, barely there, barely even a shadow, on the upper lip. 

Sometimes, Brendon made Ryan a little speechless. 

“I haven't done anything wrong,” Brendon said with a kind of soft insistence that grabbed Ryan's chest and squeezed; he lowered his head. Okay, so, technically, technically that was true. 

It was only a look. That wasn't a crime. 

“The way you looked at me,” he murmured. 

“I can't help that.”

This was why Ryan hated being angry with Brendon: he just could never, ever stay that way. He had to turn his music up, he had to blind himself, he had to be physically and mentally and emotionally elsewhere, because as soon as he looked at Brendon and saw his heat and remembered why he'd _asked_ him not to tease him when he had a girlfriend, okay, and a girlfriend that he loved, really, he did, he remembered wanting to never ask him at all. 

He remembered the way his stomach exploded into thousands of butterflies;, the way he felt tingly and nervous and outside himself and too deeply into his head. how exposed he felt; how he lovedhated that; how Brendon made him speak, gave him a name, a voice; how intense it could get. 

“Spence and Jon are pissed at us,” Brendon said into the silence. 

'Don't care.” Ryan was sullen because he was overwhelmed. He tightened his arms around Brendon and rested his head against him, closing his eyes, 

“You're not really pissed at me,” he ventured then, and Ryan nodded. 

“You're mad at yourself because you want what you can't have.” 

Ryan snapped his head up. Brendon had an alarming way of switching between boyish and knowing; Ryan was too open near Brendon and Brendon knew his way right inside Ryan's head.

Ryan had mapped it for him in every song Brendon sung. 

“Brendon...” Ryan started, but ended before going any further. He'd already run out of words. 

* 

Outside the parked bus, Spencer and Jon were sitting on a couple of chairs, heavy-coated and armed with a deck of playing cards. 

“Where were these, anyway?” Jon asked, dealing a quick hand of poker. 

“My pocket,” Spencer explained, gathering up his hand. “I've done this before.” 

Jon chuckled. That was Spencer for you. A boy scout disguised as a rebel and their social barometer (Ryan Ross edition) to boot. Good old Spence. 

“Ryan and his spats,” Spencer continued, “Are legendary.”

“And he and B need to - “

“Just get a fucking room already?”

“Exactly.” 

“This is what I've been saying, man. This is what I've been saying,” 

They both fell silent to contemplate that, the only sound in the air the flick and swish of cards in play. Neither one of them glanced back at the bus, respectful; they just let their breath fog in the evening air and bite of frost preparing for morning. 

They weren't going back in there until this was all done. No matter how cold it was.

*

Inside, Brendon and Ryan had reached an odd, charged impasse. Eighteen minutes and forty seconds of relative silence; Brendon was curled in Ryan's lap and Ryan's hand was curled in Brendon's hair. Sometimes it untangled itself to stroke his hair, smooth, soothe; when the hand was stilled, he just held on. 

Brendon's occasional murmurs were quieting, so it was Ryan who broke the silence when he noticed that. “You falling asleep?” 

Brendon shook his head.

More silence. Ryan closed his eyes, started stroking Brendon's hair again. There was something undeniable in his closeness, something unspeakable on the feel of him draped over him, beneath him. 

It was long moments before either of them volunteered speech again, and this time it was Brendon: “You can.” 

“Can what?” Ryan asked, small frown on his face. Brendon had sounded serious, sounded grown-up and serious and _Brendon_ , god, sometimes his voice made him shiver, made him dizzy, make him forget things like breathing. 

And the breathing was really too essential to forget.

“You can have me. If you want. And I know you do.” 

“Yeah,” Ryan admitted, quietly, looking anywhere but at Brendon, “But I can't.” 

“I'm saying yes.” 

“Keltie's not.” 

“She's not here. _Please_ , Ryan, I - “ and Brendon stopped himself and looked up, tugging on Ryan's chin to bring him back to their space, to the moment. 

Ryan looked at him. Ryan looked at him and saw him pleading, saw him wide-eyed and wanting and rough on the edges and sweet in the center; close to the heart, where it mattered.

Ryan groaned. 

And then he leaned forward and oh, fuck yes, he actually kissed Brendon. 

He kissed him and felt Brendon's hand fall from his chin; he kissed him and tugged Brendon up to coax his arms around his neck, he kissed Brendon and he kissed him with lips that moved wordlessly against his, opened, and drank him in. 

His taste, his scent, jesus, his scent, the way that Brendon was everything in that moment, Brendon was the foreignness in his mouth, the hotness in his cheeks. 

Brendon whimpered. Ryan kissed him a little harder. 

And then a banging started on the side of the bus. 

“Are you two fucking yet, for fuck's sake?” Spencer. 

“It's fucking _freezing_.” And that would be Jon. 

Ryan sighed. Brendon sighed. They pulled apart. 

* 

Outside, Spencer gave Jon a satisfied smirk. 

Jon gave him an answering nod. “Tension cut.” 

“Now they might actually talk to each other,” Spencer agreed.” 

“Timing is everything,” Jon said, stroking his chin and feeling rather wise.

* 

Inside, Brendon turned to look at a face-flushed Ryan, and shrugged. “Lousy timing.” 

“Yeah,” Ryan said, picking up his phone and punching Keltie's speed-dial number, repeating, quietly, “Lousy timing.” 

*


End file.
